


properly spoiled

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Food, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry & nick & the clique stoned on primrose hill</p>
            </blockquote>





	properly spoiled

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, june 2014 
> 
> come say hello and talk about harry's tum w/ me [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) :)

“I can’t - oh god. Oh god, this is it,” Harry says, wide-eyed, gripping at the picnic blanket with one hand. “Fuck, how long has it been since we ate it?" 

"Bout an hour,” Daisy says, licking chocolate off her fingers. 

“My mouth’s dry,” Harry whines, smacking his lips. “Why is my mouth so dry?" 

"Here, idiot,” Nick says fondly, handing over a bottle of water. “Just put your sunglasses on and calm down a bit." 

"This was your idea,” Harry says accusingly, tugging at Nick’s shirt, fingers gone fumbly. His sunglasses are still on his head, and his hair is curling out wild around them, in sweat-damp ringlets. “You’re a bad influence." 

"This was your bloody idea!” Nick unpeels Harry’s fingers. “Be careful, love, we’re still in public." 

They are indeed in public, sat on a picnic blanket on Primrose Hill - just Daisy and Nick and Harry and Aimee and Ian. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the sun beating down, and there’s an assortment of beautiful probably-vegan (Nick doesn’t ask anymore) baked goods spread in front of them, all happily provided by Daisy. Everything’s sweet and wholesome and normal, except the triple chocolate brownies with a sea salt caramel drizzle have a - a special added ingredient. 

And that ingredient is currently making popstar Harry Styles act like a fourteen year old drinking his first wine cooler. 

"Whooooa,” Harry says, his fingers loosening on Nick’s shirt. “Whoa. God." 

Nick laughs, low in his chest, starting to feel the buzz of it himself. God, it’s sunny out. It’s glorious. 

"Aims,” he says, leaning back on his hands. “Hand me another lemon bar?" 

"Me too, please,” Harry says, sitting back the same way. In the grass behind them, their fingers brush, and Nick grins wide and stupid at nothing. 

“They’re so good, damn, Daisy,” Aimee says, her flat New York accent gone all slow and stumbly, and Nick laughs, sits up to eat it. It’s just so - funny. How they’re all, like. High. And how no one knows they’re all high. And if they keep their sunglasses on, and act normal, no one will ever know. Nick’s not planning on taking any videos of Harry, or pictures. Not today. 1D’s learned their lesson on that one. 

“Harry?” a voice says, from their right, and Harry jerks against Nick’s side, choking on his lemon bar. 

“Yeaaah?” he says, coughing wet crumbs into his palm. It’s a teenage girl Nick doesn’t know, looking nervously down at them. “Oh, hello.”

“D’you mind, um,” she says, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, d’you mind taking a photo?" 

"Of course,” Harry says, grinning up at her, and Nick takes care to slide Harry’s sunglasses down from his forehead to his eyes before he stands up. The idiot  _would_  get caught all bloodshot and stupid. 

Though they could probably blame the red eyes on allergies or sommat. Damn, Nick’s good. He should’ve been in PR. 

Harry staggers to his feet, and nearly falls over. 

“What’s your name?” he says sweetly, only sounding slightly fucked-up, and the girl replies, “Angela,” and then Nick tunes them out, because the lemon bar is taking up most of his limited attention. It’s just so sweet, and sour, all at the same time, and it’s crumbly and sticky and it tastes really, really fucking good. 

He must moan around it or something, because Aimee hits his thigh with her fist. 

“Calm yourself,” she says, laughing, handing him a glass bottle of juice. Nick takes a swallow, and it’s so wet and sweet on his tongue he almost moans again. “Stop tonguefucking that pastry, Nicholas." 

Distantly, Nick registers Harry, sitting down next to him again, and then the weight of Harry is pressed against his side, and Nick can feel every molecule of his solid, sun-warmed body, muscles shifting under his t-shirt. 

"Mmmm, hello,” Nick says, and Harry reaches over him for a cookie, all grabby hands and long limbs. He stuffs half of it in his mouth and says to Nick, “She was nice." 

"Good,” Nick replies vaguely. “Great." 

"I don’t think she had  _any idea_ ,” Harry whispers, conspiratorially, chewing the second half of the cookie. “That I’m really  _fucked up_.” 

"She  _probably didn’t_ ,” Nick whispers back, laughing at him, and Harry grabs the juice out of his hand and takes a gulp. 

"I can feel it, like, in my skull,” he says, laughing. “Fuuucking hell.”

Nick pats his leg comfortingly and surveys the rest of their motley crew. Ian’s either asleep or dead, sprawled out on the blanket with a shirt over his face. Daisy looks serene and perfect, as always, gazing upon the Hill like a queen over her subjects, and Aimee- oh, Aimee’s looking at him. God, Nick loves Aimee. He’s loved her forever. 

He smiles at her, and Aimee smiles back. 

“I love you, babe,” she says, squeezing his knee with one hand. 

“I was  _just_  thinking that!” 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, Aims, I love you so much." 

Aimee leans on his shoulder, lets out a sigh. 

"This is nice,” she says. 

“It really is." 

"We never get high anymore. Now that we’re adults, or whatever." 

"I know,” Nick says, petting her hair. It’s all soft, and wispy at the ends. “It’s bloody fun." 

"How ya doin, Styles?” Aimee asks, and Harry looks over at her. It takes him a full ten seconds to turn his head. Oh, he’s feeling it, alright. 

“Great,” he says, so slow it has multiple syllables. “Want another lemon bar." 

Nick laughs and hands him one, and Harry hunches over it like it’s going to escape, finishes it in three bites. 

"Juice please,” he says, like a needy toddler. Nick passes it over, and Harry chugs half the bottle, then sits back and groans. 

“God,” he says. “This is really fucking perfect." 

"Yeah?” Nick says, slipping his hand around to Harry’s back, touching under the hem of his shirt with his thumb. He rubs back and forth, and Harry hums in immediate, responsive pleasure. 

“Yeah.” Harry grins wide at him, and maybe it’s just the weed fucking up Nick’s eyesight, but he’s actually  _sparkling_. His skin is tan and shimmering in the sun, and he’s glowing. Like a star. A popstar. Nick laughs, briefly, and thinks about kissing him, but no matter how fucked up he is, he knows not to do that in public. Drunk, stoned, on bloody MDMA even - he’ll never touch Harry like that in front of people. 

It makes him sad, for a minute, like he’s staring into a well, dark and deep and cold - and then the wind picks up and tickles across his skin and he forgets all about it. All that matters is the sun, and Harry, and his friends, and how beautiful the day is. 

Harry leans over him to drag the Tupperware of cookies towards himself, and starts picking at them, breaking off pieces and putting them into his mouth, hungry and stoned and oddly endearing. Nick watches him for a minute, and then he watches a puppy that’s scampering around on the hill playing fetch, and then he stares, oddly, at Ian’s ankles for a while. They’re weird and knobby and interesting. Nick resists the urge to touch them.  

Harry’s still chewing next to him, alternating bites with sips from his water. 

“What’s in these again, Daisy?” he asks, handing a chunk to Nick like Nick had asked for it. Nick shrugs, pops it in his mouth. 

“They’re flourless peanut butter oatmeal dark chocolate chip,” Daisy answers from the other side of the picnic blanket. She’s tanning her legs and sipping an iced coffee. 

“They’re  _amazing_ ,” Harry murmurs around a mouthful. 

"Cheers, love." 

"Everything tastes so good,” Harry says, happily. “And feels so good." 

Aimee laughs. “You’re adorable.” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at her, all covered in chocolate, and Nick snorts, waves a hand at him. 

"God, you idiot, wash your mouth out." 

Harry grins and grabs for the juice. 

"What’s in the juice again, Daisy?” he asks, before he takes a long pull. 

“It’s got beetroot, ginger, apple, and watermelon,” Daisy murmurs, kicking her shoes off and wiggling her toes in the grass. 

“It’s so red.” Harry laughs. “It’s reaaaally good. You’re, like, amazing." 

"Aww, thanks,” Daisy says. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?" 

"Really good.” Harry reaches over Nick’s legs for another lemon bar. Bloody youths, with their bloody high metabolism. “I feel really happy." 

Nick snorts, fondly, and Daisy spares them both a grin. 

"I’m glad, babes." 

Harry’s licking lemon off his fingers and doesn’t answer. 

A cloud drifts in front of the sun and Nick shivers, with a sudden chill, sweat cooling under his arms and on his face. 

"Daisy?” he says, beseechingly. 

“Yes, babe." 

"Do you have a blanket?" 

"Ooh, a blanket,” Harry says eagerly. 

Nick knows he’s acting all of four years old, but whatever, he’s  _chilly_. 

“Yes, Grimmy, I’ve got a blanket,” Daisy says long-sufferingly, digging in her bag. “There you are, darling." 

It’s fleecy and soft and Nick takes a minute just to touch it all over, feel it under his hands. 

"Thanks,” he murmurs belatedly, and shakes it out over his legs.

“I want some,” Harry says, leaning into him, and Nick knows they’re straying into dangerous territory, but it’s just a blanket. They’re just sharing a blanket. Everyone shares blankets. Blanket-sharing is a national pastime. 

He gives Harry the edge, and Harry tugs it over his thighs until they’re both covered. 

“Mmm,” Harry says, satisfied, and then he whines, leans back and breathes out deep. “Fuck, I’m really full." 

"Shocking,” Nick laughs. “Considering the amount of pastry you just consumed.”

“But Grimmy,” Harry whispers. “What if, like - because I drank all that juice, what if it all combines and I get ill and have to go to hospital, and then they test my blood and find out I’m high, and they leak the story, and everyone finds out-" 

"Jesus Christ,” Aimee interjects, snorting. 

“Calm down,” Nick laughs. “That’s not a thing, Harry." 

"It could be,” Harry says darkly, rubbing his stomach. 

“You’re fucking paranoid.” Nick rolls his eyes. “And the only way anyone’s going to find out you’re high is if I videotape you talking bollocks like you are right now." 

"Heyyyy,” Harry says, pouting. “Too soon." 

From where he’s lying comatose, Ian lets out a single snort of laughter. 

Nick grins at him, and Harry’s mouth twitches at the corner, before he breaks and his dimples pop out, sunny and irrepressible. 

"I hate you,” he says. 

“Sure you do." 

"No, I really do." 

"Mmhm.” Nick flops down onto his back, careful to tug the picnic blanket over his head so his neck’s not in the grass, and before he can stop him, Harry lies down next to him, pulling the blanket up over them both. 

“Haz,” Nick says, warningly. 

“Shut up,” Harry says, like he knows what Nick’s thinking. “It’s fine." 

He digs his head back into the blanket, sighs, and then Nick feels Harry’s hand on his. 

"Harry." 

Harry huffs another sigh, drags Nick’s hand over to him, and Nick’s half-expecting to have a handful of Harry’s dick before Harry sets Nick’s hand on his stomach and gives him an expectant look through his sunglasses. 

"What the hell,” Nick says, laughing. “-are you doing." 

"Hurts,” Harry says, poking at Nick’s hand. “C’mon." 

"You know you’re not an actual puppy, right?" 

Harry sticks his tongue out and waggles it around in a vague approximation of a dog licking something, and Nick has to bite his lip to keep from smiling so wide it hurts his dry mouth. 

"You’re a strange person." 

"You love it,” Harry says quietly, as Nick strokes his belly, over his t-shirt but under the blanket, hand hidden from anyone who might be taking pictures. Nick tries to school his face into indifference, so his stupid fucking affection is hidden too. 

“I think,” Nick murmurs, letting his fingers slip under Harry’s shirt, rubbing against warm tight skin, over the swell of his belly up to the nub of his nipple. Harry shudders, jolts, lets out this shaky little sigh. “I think, that you are wildly spoiled." 

"Yeah?” Harry breathes. 

“Yeah.” God, Harry’s skin is soft. Nick lets his hand wander down again, skims his fingers over the bottom of Harry’s stomach, the bit of soft flesh he still carries around, even now. Harry sucks in a breath, licks his lips, and Nick smiles. He feels, suddenly, like Harry is a finely-tuned instrument that Nick’s spent a lifetime learning how to play. Like he knows exactly which bits to touch and pluck to make Harry sing. 

It’s intoxicating. Feels like power. 

“M’only spoiled because it’s your fault,” Harry argues nonsensically, and Nick laughs. 

“My fault?" 

"Mm, yes,” Harry breathes out, when Nick cups the curve of his hip in one hand, then moves back to the round of his belly. “Yeah, it’s - it’s your fault." 

If any part of Harry is Nick’s fault, Nick deserves a fucking medal. 

But he doesn’t say that. He just keeps stroking his hand up and down, running his fingers through the hair that trickles down into Harry’s shorts, feeling the expanse of his ribs and his tight, hard nipples. Harry stays perfectly still, breathing deep, twitching if Nick uses his fingernails. It’s perfect. Feels so fucking  _right_ , in Nick’s addled mind, just touching Harry all over like this - 

\- and then he slips his hand down, and Harry is so, so hard, and Nick grunts a little in his throat at the feeling of it. Fuck, he loves cock. Harry’s cock specifically. It makes his head spin, that Harry’s gone stiff and throbbing in his shorts because of Nick’s hand all over his stomach and chest.

He bets Harry is leaking, at this point. He gets wet so easy, and Nick cups the bulge of his dick and says, voice slurring a bit, sun-soaked and floating, “God, I want to suck you off.”

Harry murmurs out a groan, sets his hand over Nick’s and  _presses_ , grinds up into the pressure of Nick’s palm, a slow roll of his hips. 

"Gngh,” he contributes, eloquent as always, his voice breathy. “Yeah, fuck." 

Nick can’t stop looking at Harry’s mouth, and thinking about his own mouth, and oh, Jesus, he’s fucking buzzing with how much he wants it. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not in public. 

He pulls his hand off, and Harry shakes his head, whines, looks at him beseechingly, digging his teeth into his full pink bottom lip. 

"Nick,” he says, voice cracking. “C’mon-" 

"Later,” Nick whispers, reaching his hand up, tucking a silky curl behind Harry’s ear and then sitting up, adjusting himself in his jeans. 

Harry lets out a sigh and turns over onto his stomach, sulky like a kid. 

“Good call,” Aimee says, lifting her head from where she’s snogging Ian senseless, all slow and lazy. Nick doesn’t want to look at them. It just reminds him of what he can’t have. “That would’ve been a fucking story. You idiot." 

"Sod off,” Nick says crossly, shifting, his dick hard and uncomfortable and unwilling to go down with Harry all spread out next to him, arse-up and pliant and still hard. Nick pictures him grinding into the ground, helpless, and actually has to bite down a groan. “And give me another lemon bar." 

"Did they shag?” Ian mumbles. He hasn’t moved in about an hour. Such a lightweight, Ian. 

“No, babe,” Aimee says, handing Nick the last of the lemon bars, a crumbly corner piece. “Nick controlled himself for once." 

"Wow,” Ian says. “Shocking.”

“Oh shut up, trashbag,” Nick snaps, throwing a chunk of crust at him, and Ian just laughs, as Aimee ducks down to kiss him again. 

Under the blanket, Nick feels Harry’s hand on his ankle, long fingers wrapping around, thumb rubbing over the bone. 

“Later,” Harry says, muffled, squeezing Nick’s leg, and Nick nods. Later. 


End file.
